Stop Being Dead
by fangirl-randomness
Summary: Spoiler warning for The Reichenbach Fall. AU in which John falls instead of Sherlock. Johnlock feels/fluff
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was having a nightmare. He could tell right away, because the scene before him…

It couldn't be real, right?

Everything was in vivid, bright colours, searing into his vision, and almost hurting his eyes. The red stain on the floor was what held his attention at the moment. His quicksilver eyes were locked on it, and slowly they moved up to a body. He dreaded to know who it belonged to, although his brain was once again far ahead of him, already having figured it out the minute he had formed the dream in his mind's eye. But he wouldn't accept it. Not now, not ever.

A single tear escaped as the logical part of his head told him there was no way that he could have survived that. A single blow to the head, hard enough to crack the skull, and multiple bruises on the limbs.

His eyes roamed upwards still, to where the head was lying in a puddle of blood. Sherlock didn't have the nerve to reach over and turn it to look at the face.

He didn't trust his self-control enough to look at the empty eyes of John Watson.

* * *

Sherlock sat up suddenly, chest heaving and breathing harsh, and slowly the breaths turned into quiet sobs. He hugged his knees and cried, allowing the dam he had built up over the past 2 years to break, and now it flooded his eyes with tears. He paused, salt pricking his cheeks, having heard a sound outside. Sherlock hastily wiped his face and laid back down, hiding his face in the pillow and pulling the covers up. After a moment, the door opened, the light illuminating the shadow of Mycroft, who remained there for a second, before letting out a heavy sigh.

"You don't have to hide it, Sherlock. I know you miss him." When he didn't respond, Mycroft continued. "Despite the many times I've told you that caring wasn't an advantage, you still went out of your way to protect him. It couldn't have ended well. You knew this, Sherlock." He continued to ignore him. "Sherlock, I can hear you, you know. And your nightmares aren't going to get better if you keep-"

"Get OUT!" Sherlock bellowed suddenly, throwing the covers off and sitting bolt upright. "Get out, Mycroft, you don't know a damn about how this feels, you don't, trust me! So stop with your bloody lectures and leave me in peace!" Mycroft balked, and after a moment complied, closing the door to leave him alone in the darkness with nothing but his bitter sobs for company.

* * *

Sherlock held a single rose behind his back, and stared hard at the velvety grass that covered the pain of so many. He paused in front of a tree, and placed the flower on a patch of upturned soil by a polished black slab of stone. He hesitated, before beginning to speak.

"I know...you probably can't hear me, and this is illogical in every sense of the word but...I couldn't let this go. Not yet. I-" He paused, voice cracking, and so Sherlock cleared his throat to try again. "I wanted to tell you so many things while you were alive….and I would say it now. Except it wouldn't have any meaning now, would it?" He let out a choked laugh. "...What I can say, though...You were an amazing man, you were...well, everything I'm not. Brave, honest, loyal, and above all, you were kind. You helped me get over my addiction, you taught me how to feel, you taught me….you taught me how to love." Sherlock swallowed back a sob before continuing. "I know I've asked a lot of you. But I promise. If you do this one thing for me, I won't ever ask anything else of you ever again."

"Please, John...one more miracle….for me?" He swallowed once more, but couldn't stop a tear from escaping. Sherlock wiped it away furiously, and managed to push down the rising emotions to utter one more thing.

"Just….stop this. Stop being dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for your kind reviews, and I'm sorry for making you cry ;w; but I SHALL FIX YOU *throws chapter at you lovelies***

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in his 'office', as Mycroft liked to call it, thinking. He had his fingers in his trademark steeple, and spun in circles in his swivel chair absently. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and walked out the door, grabbing his coat and scarf on his way out. "I'm going out."

"Do be back within the day, or Mummy'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Yes, yes, whatever Mycroft, just go back to your paperwork or whatever boring things you've resigned yourself to now." He flung the door open and stepped outside into the cool London air, and held his hand up to signal a cab. After a moment one drove up, and he clambered in. "Billy's," he called to the driver's seat, and the vehicle began moving. It took less than 5 minutes to get there, but he honestly couldn't be bothered to walk at the moment, seeing as he needed all his concentration for a case he was working on at the moment, particularly tricky, involving a woman with her head smashed in but apparently burned to death. Sherlock couldn't figure out for the life of him why someone would go to the trouble of smashing in the head of a dead body, but-

"Sir, we're here," the cabbie called back to him.

There was something familiar about his voice, but he couldn't place it. "Yes, yes, quit nagging," he muttered under his breath, carelessly throwing a wad of bills onto the passenger seat and exiting the car, still mumbling under his breath all the facts he knew so far about it: a woman dedicated to her relationships; happy marriage; 3 children; nobody who would want to kill her, as far as he could tell; fire had been extinguished before her skull had been shattered-

His thoughts were interrupted once more by a waiter. "Hello sir, would you like something to drink?"

Irritated, Sherlock attempted to wave him off. "No, not yet, can't you see I'm busy?" The server apologised and quickly backed off, although there was again something about his voice that tipped him off. He brushed it off, however, and went back to his thoughts. Her hair, though, there had been something off about it, it was too pinched on one side, perhaps a hairpin? But there was no hairpin on the body…

Suddenly it all fit together, the hairpin was probably what they were after, but being a very thin piece of metal it must have fused to her skull in the fire, resulting in the head being smashed to remove the pin as it was the quickest method because the fire had already been doused. As for why they killed the woman, she was a rather talkative sort, and so she would've immediately gone to the police with her information. Tragic, really, seeing as the police were informed anyways.

Sherlock's eyes flashed open and without really thinking he began rambling: "John, I've solved it, it was the hairpi-" All of a sudden he stopped, as the memories crashed back down and swamped him in a tide of emotions, confused at his own actions. Sherlock hadn't tried to talk to John for over 4 months now…what could've triggered it?

The second puzzle slid into place as he recalled the cab driver and the waiter. Their voices - no, _his_ voice had been oddly familiar…Sherlock studied the tablecloth for a moment, trying to recall what John's voice had sounded like. _It's not possible,_ the logical side of his brain told him. _You saw what happened. He's dead. He's_ gone _, Sherlock._ But he was overcome with a feeling he hadn't had in so long, he couldn't bring himself to put out the spark of hope.

"Excuse me, sir, are you ready to order yet?" The server had returned, and Sherlock didn't look up, knowing that he couldn't be wrong.

Not this time, and not about this.

"Why hello there, John. Fancy seeing you here," Sherlock responded, keeping his eyes trained on the menu he had opened, and he heard him slide into the booth across from him.

"It's about time," John spoke softly, a shaky grin on his face. "For a while there you had me worried."

Sherlock still refused him eye contact, not daring to look up in case this was an extremely elaborate hallucination. "2 years, John. _2 years._ And no word from you. Not even once."

John ducked his head in apology. "I know. And I'm sorry."

Finally, Sherlock glanced up at him, and the first thing he noticed was his face, making him absolutely sure that it was John, because even his mind wasn't this creative. "Seriously? You abandoned me to grow a mustache?"

He snorted. "No, I just needed a convincing disguise."

"And you thought a mustache would help."

"Well...yeah."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a vague smile. "Give me three good reasons not to smack you upside the head, right this instant."

"Let's see...I'm your presumed-to-be-dead best friend, you missed me, and you would rather not see me injured?" John offered.

"Not good enough." Shutting the menu with a snap, he stood up, grabbed John by the ear, and dragged him outside.

Sherlock then proceeded to punch him _very_ hard in the nose.

* * *

3 cafes, 2 injuries, and 1 very nasty curse word later, the pair stood outside 221B Baker Street, debating how to spring John's return to Mrs. Hudson.

"I still say I should just go and sit in my chair in the sitting room and scare the living daylights out of her," John muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the flow of blood from it a bit.

"As I've already said about 3 thousand times, John, I moved your chair to 221C because I didn't want to look at it, now think of something that we could actually pull off."

"I'll sit in your chair then." Sherlock gave him a look.

"But that's my chair."

"So?"

"So it's my chair. You can't sit in my chair."

"Why not? We could just move it to where my chair normally is."

"Because it's _my chair._ God, John, one would've hoped that with two years of fending for yourself you would've grown a tiny bit more intelligent."

"It's a _bloody chair_ for Christ's sake-"

"Still doesn't change the facts and the fact is that it's my chair."

"Okay, okay I get it. Jesus."

They stood there for another few minutes. "You know, I still don't understand why it matters so much, it's-"

"My chair, so it'd be nice if that point sunk into your rather thick head."

* * *

John ended up sitting in Sherlock's chair anyways.

Mrs. Hudson, unaware of John's presence as Sherlock caused as much pandemonium as he could, came upstairs with tea:

"Sherlock, is that you? What's with all the ruckus? I thought Mycroft wasn't to call until Tuesday?" she called up the stairs, carefully balancing the tea tray with on hand, using the other to steady herself with the railing. Mrs. Hudson walked into the room, where Sherlock was playing the violin obnoxiously badly, while John sat calmly in Sherlock's chair, reading the newspaper.

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said without looking up.

She halted in her steps. "J-John? Is that you?" The hand holding the tray began shaking violently, and before Mrs. Hudson dropped it, Sherlock whisked it away.

"Tea, excellent. John, would you like some?" Without waiting for a response, he handed John one of the cups, who nodded gratefully and accepted it.

That was when she started screaming.

* * *

Lestrade was an entirely different case altogether. All John did was to follow Sherlock into Scotland Yard like they used to, and waited for Lestrade to notice him. It actually took longer than he expected, seeing as Lestrade was preoccupied with a chain of serial murders, and so didn't pay much mind to him. He only so much as glanced up when John pulled out a chair next to Sherlock to sit down in.

"Hello John," Lestrade greeted, going back to his papers for a split-second, before doing a double-take. "Wait. _John?_ "

"Yes, it's me, hello." He gave a little wave.

"You're-hold on, you're _alive?_ " Lestrade stood up and slowly moved around his desk to where John was, maintaining eye contact the entire time while debating whether or not to punch him.

John gave him a cheeky grin. "Alive and fully functioning, yes."

"You…..you bloody bastard," Lestrade managed to get out beforereaching out to touch his shoulder to make sure he was real. He pulled him into a suffocating hug, and John received several well-earned thumps on the back and a couple on the head. Seperating, Lestrade continued: "You bloody bastard, how are you alive?"

John waved a hand. "Not important right now. But I'll have you know that Moriarty's web has been completely destroyed."

He gaped. "Completely? Are you sure?"

John nodded. "Very."

Lestrade continued gaping at him for another moment, before shaking his head in disbelief. "You bastard."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Pretty sure we've gotten past this part."

* * *

Lestrade was pretty sure he broke 3 of his knuckles after punching him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, its me! Lucky you guys, you get another chapter :3 this was supposed to be just a one-shot of those two chapters, but I got some reviews asking for more, so, being the weak-willed person I am, I simply had to give in to you all. Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands steepled and deep inside his mind palace trying to solve a case. John sat opposite him, going through the paper with mild disinterest. All of a sudden, there were several loud knocks at the door, breaking through the comfortable silence.

John jumped to his feet and ran to answer it. At the door was an extremely tall man with dark raven curls and warm chocolate eyes. He frowned upon seeing John. "Who are you?"

John huffed, and craned his neck to look up at the towering man. "I'm John. John Watson. I assume you want to see Sherlock?" He nodded, and so John stepped aside to allow him inside. Without sparing him a second glance the man ran up the stairs and into the flat. John followed him up, confused as to how the man knew his way in, but figuring he must've been a returning client. The idea, however, seemed laughable. Clients never had a second incident, at least unless they were making up their stories to see if Sherlock could tell whether they were faking or not.

He walked into the flat to see him tapping Sherlock on the shoulder sharply. He was about to open his mouth in warning, but it was too late. Sherlock's eyes flashed open.

"I'm in my Mind Palace, John, what could possibly be so important that you need to-" He stopped as he noticed John by the door. His gaze flicked upwards and to the stranger, and much to John's surprise, his face lit up. "Victor!"

Victor smiled. "Hey. How's it going?" Sherlock stood up, and despite his height he had to look up ever so slightly to meet Victor's eyes.

"Working on a case. What brings you here?" John rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out if his eyes were tricking him. Was Sherlock _blushing?_

"What, am I not allowed to see my fiancé anymore?" he asked teasingly. John's mouth dropped open.

"He's...your…?" He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and self-proclaimed sociopath had a fiancé.

"Problem?" Victor asked sharply, turning his head to look at him.

John quickly shook his head. "No, no it's fine, it's all fine! I was just a bit surprised, is all."

Victor's warm smile returned. "That's good. Otherwise we would've had a bit of a problem." He laughed and ruffled through Sherlock's hair affectionately, before pressing a quick peck against his forehead. "I have to go now, just wanted to stop in and check on you. And I got you food, you better eat it." Victor pushed a paper bag that John hadn't noticed him holding into Sherlock's arms, who looked rather disgruntled, but accepted it anyways, opening it and peering inside.

"Why'd you get Indian food?" he complained.

"Because it's vegetables and they're healthy. And there was a place on the way here and I was too lazy to go somewhere else. Now I really have to go, so see you later." He placed another kiss on Sherlock's cheek, who promptly turned pink, and then spun and headed towards the stairs. "Bye, love, see you later!"

"Bye," Sherlock called after him, and walked over the door to see him out, clutching the paper bag still. "See you!"

John walked over and sat down in his chair, trying to feel happy for his flatmate, but all he could seem to conjure was a stabbing feeling in his chest. Sherlock joined him after a moment, cheeks still flushed. He opened the takeout bag and pulled out a container, scowling, but nevertheless he opened it and began eating the dhar baath with a plastic spoon. John watched in amazement: despite all his attempts to make Sherlock eat he had never complied, always simply giving him the excuse that 'food slowed his thinking.' Sherlock noticed him staring. "What is it?"

"You're eating," he replied. "You never eat. Not willingly at least."

"The key words in that sentence are 'not willingly.'" He took another few tentative bites.

John finally put two and two together. "What's he holding on you?"

Sherlock looked rather grumpy but he responded anyways. "I'm not allowed to sleep with him." Noting John's sudden red ears, he added: "I have to sleep on his couch." The blonde's face cleared and he nodded in understanding.

"His couch?" Sherlock nodded.

"I only stay here during the day for clients and experiments. I stay the night at Victor's."

"Oh."

Why was John so disappointed to hear that?

He couldn't just pretend to be dead for two years then come back, expecting everything to be the same.

Because it wasn't.

And it never will be.


End file.
